The weighty issues raised by Tara Erraught

Well, sure. But that last part, that’s the important one. I’m one of many to comment on the case of Tara Erraught, a young opera singer featured in an Irish production of Der Rosenkavalier. Erraught recently found herself the victim of a volley of mean-spirited critical attacks, all reaching the conclusion that she was too fat — this in an art form that inspired the phrase “It ain’t over ‘til the fat lady sings.”

By now, the reviews have been parsed everywhere, but to recap, there’s something particularly unsavory about reading terms such as “chubby bundle of puppy-fat” and “dumpy” written for 21st-century newspapers by men — in the guise of serious criticism — to describe an adult woman and rising mezzo-soprano. (Here’s NPR’s discussion and links to those reviews.) If anyone wanted ammunition for his or her claim that newspapers and/or criticism belong in a pre-millennial grave, these reviewers handed them the print equivalent of five hollow-point bullets.

Let’s set aside the obvious response that Pavarotti’s physique was viewed as an outward expression of his vocal power and passionate appetites, or Erraught’s fellow mezzo-soprano Alice Coote’s assertion that despite these critics’ romantic preferences, an abdominal six-pack hinders singing, which is after all, Erraught’s profession. (Even Maria Callas wasn’t immune to this double standard: One critic called her “the prima donna with an elephant’s legs.”)

Whose standards?

The underlying problem is that these reviewers assume their attractions serve as a baseline for attractiveness in general, and further, that their version of attractiveness matters in regard to a performer’s success or failure. It’s telling that the sole female-written review didn’t mention the singer’s body and praised her performance.

But this isn’t just an issue of men judging women, and it’s certainly not limited to opera. Alastair Macaulay's 2010 Times review of The Nutcracker (and subsequent column discussing his review) start at the assertion that a ballet dancer ought to look a certain way and remain there without adjusting for a dancer’s skill, which even Macaulay admits — at least when it comes to Mark Morris — can triumph over his expectations of leanness.

It’s true that some roles require the actor to seduce an audience, but even in those cases, centerfold-ideal measurements are the performer's least important quality. It’s a shortcut, sure, but onstage and in life, as a wise person once said, a pretty face might get you in the door, but after five minutes of conversation, you’d better know something. That doorway to hubristic ruin is surely piled high with the toned bodies of a million failed model/actors.

However, what of other roles that, by a playwright’s own hand, require a certain look, or at least request it? Recently, my colleague (and, full disclosure: my friend) Jim Rutter reviewed Richard Greenberg’s Three Days of Rain and castigated the lead actor for possessing a “sallow chest, sunken shoulders and obvious paunch.” Harsh? Sure. Over the top? Maybe, though when you consider that one of the critic’s responsibilities is to make you see what he or she is seeing, you can understand that writing a bland descriptor such as “wrong physical type” won’t work.

Staying in character

The difference here, as is often the case, rests in the show’s (and the review’s) context. Rutter’s review explains that Greenberg’s description of the character includes soap-opera good looks. He cites other actors who have played the role (Bradley Cooper, for one), all handsome and charismatic men. It sounds as if the actor’s performance didn’t justify the departure from type, and that’s also important.

There’s no crime in casting against type if the casting makes sense. Peter Dinklage made himself into a dark, brooding heartthrob. Dustin Hoffman took a job written for a tall, blond WASP and made The Graduate his own. Charlize Theron won an Oscar for making us believe she was a thick, haggard serial killer. They all had one thing in common: the chops to pull it off.

So, what discussion of bodies doesn’t discredit the critic and/or the profession? To my mind, it seems pretty obvious that bodies don’t figure into a review unless they’re written into the script, or somehow help or hinder an actor’s expression of his or her character. It’s not that critics must ignore everything from the neck down (or up). It’s that critics must consider the actor a whole package whose parts can’t be switched out.

Criticize the moveable elements of costume, set, or lighting all you want. But remember, actors play roles, and when they leave the theater, their bodies remain with them. A critic’s job is to evaluate the onstage success or failure of that entire package on its own terms and not to ruminate on whether or not it appeals to you offstage or violates expectations you brought with you before you ever took your aisle seat.

To read a response by Dan Rottenberg, click here.